


Kind of a Thing for Feet

by earlgreytea68



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bingo, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Inception Bingo, M/M, trope bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 19:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15347145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: The U.S. health insurance situation is a nightmare.





	Kind of a Thing for Feet

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Inception Bingo 2018! The square is "fake relationship / pretend dating."

“So you see,” Eames finished, “that is why we have to pretend to be married.” 

Arthur had not moved a muscle in the past five minutes. He was sitting, completely impassive, watching Eames so expressionlessly that Eames couldn’t spot any of Arthur’s usual tells. _You’ve really done it_ , Eames thought to himself. _You’ve broken him._ Eames didn’t think congratulations were in order, though, since he’d wanted himself a functioning Arthur. He supposed he had just overdone it. That was the danger with him, he thought sadly, lavish with self-pity. Sometimes he didn’t know his own power. 

Arthur said flatly, “Because you have bunions.” 

Eames jumped, startled, because he’d rather resigned himself to the thought that Arthur might never speak again. “What?” 

“That’s what you just spent five minutes explaining to me in excruciating detail: We have to get married because you have bunions.” 

Eames frowned. “You’re focusing on the wrong bit.” 

“The bunion bit?” 

“Yes. That’s the wrong bit.” 

“You want me to focus on the pretending-to-be-married bit?” said Arthur drily. “You think that would be better?” 

“I want you to focus on the fact that you have _health insurance_. That’s more relevant.” 

“It’s only relevant because you have bunions. And aren’t you British? Doesn’t that come with free health insurance?” 

Eames frowned at Arthur very hard. “That’s neither here nor there.” 

Arthur’s eyebrows lifted in his perfect sexy personification of dubiousness, which was so annoying. And sexy. And annoying. “Isn’t it?”

“You want me to compromise several identities in the name of claiming my free health insurance?” 

“That’s up to you,” Arthur remarked simply. “I suppose it depends on how much your bunions are bothering you.” There was a shadow of a dimple lurking in Arthur’s left cheek. He was enjoying this, the bastard. 

But Eames reminded himself he was going to enjoy the last laugh and bit his tongue and said, “But, darling. If you force me to go be British in service of my bunions right now, you’ll jeopardize this entire job.” Eames gestured to Arthur’s cluttered, messy desk. They were in a chic loft space, with enormous windows that delivered to them a sweeping panoramic view of San Francisco. Eames couldn’t imagine what the place had cost, and wasn’t committed enough to snoop around to get the answer. He had merely concluded that the extractor, Belinda, had managed to piss off Arthur enough that Arthur was maliciously spending the job’s money, and Eames hadn’t raised an issue because Eames knew Arthur well enough to know he’d take it all out of Belinda’s share. 

And also knew Arthur well enough to know he’d never, ever jeopardize a job. Dreamsharing was all about reputation, and Arthur had the best, and Eames knew it was a source of preening pride for him, even though Arthur would pretend it wasn’t. 

Arthur leaned back in his chair, looking less amused now. “Really? You’re going to jeopardize the job unless I pretend to be married to you?”

“It’s really all about the bunions,” said Eames mournfully, and propped his feet up on Arthur’s desk. He was still wearing shoes, but hopefully Arthur would be vividly imagining the painful bunions within. 

“It’s blackmail,” Arthur retorted. 

Eames shook his head. “Nope. Wrong ‘b’ word. _Bunions_.” He waggled his feet helpfully. 

Arthur said, “You’re a fucking nightmare to work with.” 

***

“Darling,” Eames said, when Arthur handed him his health insurance card, “we don’t have wedding rings.” 

“We don’t believe in them,” Arthur said. 

“Did I take your name or did you take mine?” 

“We each kept our own names,” said Arthur. 

“Really?” Eames was genuinely curious. “You didn’t take the opportunity to change my name to yours? Just to see how it sounded?” 

“It’s a fucking fake name,” Arthur grumbled, turning back to his desk in a clear attempt to try to hide the fact that his ears were pink. “Take the health insurance card and go to the doctor. Just know that we’re on a high-deductible plan and I’m taking every penny out of your share from this job.” 

“A high-deductible plan sounds like a poor choice for someone with as risky a career as you,” remarked Eames. 

“It’s the perfect choice for someone as _rich_ as me,” Arthur corrected him. 

“Darling, has anyone ever told you that you’re extremely attractive when you’re being an obnoxious prick?” 

“You. A lot. Now go.” 

“I can’t possibly.” 

Arthur looked at him in disbelief. “What? Why not?” 

“You simply must come with me. What sort of husband leaves his husband to face a podiatrist alone?” 

Arthur gave him a dry look. “The sort of husband you’ve got. It turns out I’m a terrible husband. It’s sad for you.” 

“Wow,” said Eames. “Are you really going to leave me to tackle the doctor’s office all alone? Is that the sort of cruel and unusual person you are?” 

“Yes.” 

“Just for that, I refuse to blow you tonight.” 

“I didn’t ask you to blow me.” 

“Just know that it was on the menu, though, and now it’s not.” 

“That is truly tragic,” Arthur rejoined, “since you’re the only guy in San Francisco with lips capable of sucking a cock.” 

“I’m the only guy in San Francisco with these lips,” Eames told him, and was gratified that Arthur’s eyes flickered to his lips. 

Eames smirked at him. 

Arthur rolled his eyes and said, “Good-bye, I hope the podiatrist kills you accidentally and I get to inherit all of your money as your loving widower.” 

“What if I told you I was scared of needles? Would that change your mind about accompanying me to the doctor?” 

“You literally stick a needle into your arm several times a day.” 

“Maybe I just hide my fear really well. I am, after all, a very talented actor.” 

“You’re a very talented con artist.” 

“It’s the same thing.” 

“Handjobs are also off the menu now,” Eames informed him primly. 

***

Eames emerged from the treatment room completely refreshed from his Brazilian clay mineral body wrap to find Arthur seated calmly in the spa’s hushed, refined waiting room. 

“Oh,” Arthur said pleasantly to the receptionist as he rose to his feet. “There’s my husband. Hello, snookums, how was your treatment?” Arthur took his hand, intertwined their fingers together. 

Eames did not often feel wrongfooted but he was a little fuzzy from the spa treatment and this was so outside the realm of anything Arthurian to do that he thought he might be hallucinating. “What?” 

“I wanted to surprise you,” Arthur continued, “seeing as it is our anniversary and all.” 

“Oh,” said Eames slowly. “Right. Our anniversary. Yes.” 

Arthur said to the receptionist, fond and resigned, “I told you he’d forget.” He turned back to Eames, straightening his collar. “It’s the anniversary of the first time you kissed me. That amazing first kiss, remember?” 

“How could I forget?” said Eames, staring at Arthur. 

“Come on,” Arthur said, smiling at him so much his eyes crinkled. “Let’s go home.” 

“Have a wonderful evening,” the receptionist cooed to them, as Arthur tugged Eames out of the spa. 

And then immediately shoved him toward the wall of the building once they were outside. “Bunions, my ass,” he snapped. 

“You knew I didn’t have bunions?” said Eames. 

“Of course I knew. I’m not clueless. I’m not _Cobb_ , for fuck’s sake. I should have agreed to go with you to the doctor’s but I was worried your plan for that was to take me somewhere to _play_ doctor instead.” 

“Yes,” said Eames. “It was a good and witty plan.” 

“No, it wasn’t. _Bunions_? That was your super-sexy way to get into my pants?” 

“I don’t actually have bunions. My feet are lovely.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with bunions.” 

“Of course not.” Eames paused. “Do _you_ have bunions?” 

“I thought you said bunions weren’t the relevant part,” said Arthur. 

“They’re not.” 

“What was the relevant part? Because it’s not my fucking health insurance.” 

“Process of elimination, Arthur,” Eames prodded him gently. 

“Yeah. I know. I already got there. You are transparent as all fuck. It’s ridiculous. You thought I’d put your name as my husband on a few forms and suddenly I’d be unable to resist the allure of your cock?” 

“I thought there was a possibility, and I thought I’m not too proud to try anything. Including making up a case of bunions so I could beg you for your health insurance. Your _terrible American_ health insurance, ugh.” 

“Can I ask a question?” asked Arthur. 

“I suppose,” sighed Eames. 

“Since we’re married now, do I have access to the NHS?” 

“What do you need the NHS for?” 

Arthur shrugged. “It might come in handy. You never know when I might develop bunions.” 

Eames paused and studied Arthur, cataloging his tells. There was an openness to him that wasn’t usually there. An air of possibility. An aura of cautious receptiveness. 

Eames, feeling things out, said nonchalantly, “Now that we’re fake-married, it’s probably a bitch to fake-divorce.” 

Arthur said, “You said blowjobs and handjobs were off the menu.” 

“Well—” Eames began. 

“So I guess that leaves us with a good old-fashioned fuck?” finished Arthur, as straightforward and casual as you please. 

Eames stood on the pavement in San Francisco and felt all of the air punch out of him. He stared at Arthur. 

Arthur shrugged and said, “What can I say, I’ve got kind of a thing for feet.” 

“Do you?” asked Eames, still breathless. 

“If they’re yours,” said Arthur, which didn’t help Eames’s breathlessness. 

Eames managed, “I might be having a heart attack.” 

Arthur said, “Good thing we’ve got health insurance. Let’s go give that heart of yours a real workout.” 

And they did. They really, really did.


End file.
